


Deleted Scene 1

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [10]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Navel-Gazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a tragedy in Kirkwall, Cullen needs reassurance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deleted Scene 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of the stories that I wrote in an attempt to get these guys married, then didn't like and self-jossed. This one would've taken place between "Redemption" and "Erudition Part 3", if I hadn't discarded it.

     The living quarters allotted to the Gallows' Knight Commander were not overly generous in size or appointment.  Although the Knight Commander alone among Templar officers was permitted additional rooms for guests or, more rarely, the political marriages that she or he might be expected to make, those rooms were small, and their décor simple if elegant.  There were the usual Tevinter cornices around the windows, unpainted marble crown molding edging the walls.  Out of respect for this tradition, Cullen had requisitioned the minimum of furnishings required for the sake of tasteful appearance:  locally-made couches and chairs and cabinets, rugs meant more to warm the feet than impress guests, sturdy tables that could be covered to make them look more elegant.  He had been stubborn about only one thing:  the windows all had heavy Fereldan drapes.  Kirkwallers didn't seem to understand that keeping rooms comfortable required proper window dressings to cut the inevitable drafts on windy days or humidity in summer, and he had no interest in the local fashion of using embroidered Orlesian fabrics where plain dyed linen-and-cotton would do.  Let the occasional guests who saw his apartments scoff if they wanted; he did not much care.  A Knight Commander was still a representative of the Andrastean faith -- even if Val Royeaux did not deign to recognize Cullen as such -- and his guests should know to expect a certain amount of austerity.

     The one concession made to luxury in the apartment's design was the picture window on the southern side of the building, which overlooked not the Gallows' grim courtyard but the greater curve of Kirkwall's bay, as well as the city and the mountains beyond.  The window spread across nearly the whole wall, lending a panoramic breadth to the view that sometimes made it seem as if, to Cullen, he could see the whole world if he only squinted hard enough.  On calmer days he liked to make his prayers there, with the first rays of sunlight edging their way over the city and the mountains; on grimmer days he would stand before the window for hours, looking at the world and wondering why so little of it made sense.

     This was how Carver found him, near midnight.  Both of them were exhausted after pulling double shifts, though in light of the situation that was only to be expected.  A battle between the Inquisition and the Black Feathers had raged all day right at the foot of Sundermount -- practically at the city gates -- and it had taken everything the Templars and other city defenders had to keep Kirkwall from suffering the fate of any innocent bystander caught in a cross-fire.  The City Guard had borne the brunt of the effort, setting up checkpoints and defensive positions about the city's walls and harbor -- but Cullen had made certain the Templars and mages of Kirkwall did their part.  He'd had the latter cast a dome of wards and protective glyphs over the whole city -- which had come in handy when a stray fireball from the battle arced over the walls and nearly fell into Hightown.  And he'd had the Templars protect those mages, even as they spent themselves keeping the city safe, for feelings still ran high in the city over the Chantry's destruction.

     He had not realized _how_ high, though.

     "I thought you had gone to bed," he said to Carver, who had padded quietly up behind him.

     "I had," said Carver.  He stopped and sat on the back of the couch, a less distinct reflection in the picture window besides Cullen's clearer one.  "But then I woke up and you weren't there, so I came looking.  You got in hours ago."

     Yes.  Cullen had come in, and racked his armor quietly so as not to wake Carver, and eaten a light meal despite having no appetite.  Then he had gone into the bathing chamber and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, though the image of two broken, bloodied bodies would not leave his mind.

     "And I do not think I shall ever feel clean again," he murmured to himself.

     Carver uttered a lengthy sigh.  "Yeah, and I figured this was what you were up to.  Standing here, tearing yourself up because of other people's evil."

     _Evil_ was the word for it, yes.  What else could one call it when a mage barely past his Harrowing, and a Templar who'd only just earned her knighthood, had been beaten to death by a mob?  And then their half-torn-apart bodies stripped and carried through the streets, to be hung and set afire by the jeering crowd.

     "She was wearing Timran's boots," Cullen said.  His breath fogged the window, obscuring the sight of a clipper rounding the first of the Twins, probably bringing in tea from Orlais.  "The pregnant woman among the mob's ringleaders.  When they caught her, she actually had his boots on, blood-spots and all."

     Carver nodded.  Cullen could see him mostly as a blurry man-shape of pale skin and reflected moonlight in the glass.  "Hard to get good boots in Lowtown.  Especially if you've got no money."

     The flood of anger that washed through Cullen was swift and, he knew immediately, completely irrational.  Carver of all people did not deserve it.  But he said anyway, "That excuses it, then?  It's all right to _tear some poor man's feet off_ if you at least get good boots in the doing?"

     Carver just looked at him, silent, and at once Cullen regretted his anger.  He had barely known Ser Hallivan, the Templar who'd died with Timran; Carver, however, had trained her and administered her oath.

     "...Sorry," Cullen said, after a moment.  Carver only shook his head, then came over to slide his arms 'round Cullen from behind.  The warmth of his body against Cullen's back made him want to close his eyes and drift away from all his troubles.  The coldness that had been in his mind since he'd seen the bodies kept him grounded, stiffly miserable.

     "'S all right.  I'm used to people yelling at me.  Grew up with the Champion, remember?  Also the Champion's little sister."  Cullen felt Carver's breath warm his hair.  "Yell at me all you want."

     "I just -- "  All at once it was too much.  Cullen's throat ached.  His eyes stung.  He pressed his fingers to his temples and it did nothing to dispel the burning rage, or the ache of understanding.  The crowd had attacked Timran first, someone throwing a rock while he was busy pouring his strength into a patch of the city's protective dome.  Witnesses said he'd gone down clutching his shoulder and screaming, and his cry had been like blood poured among sharks.  Ser Hallivan had done all she should have done, first issuing warnings and then bodily interposing herself between the fallen mage and the people throwing stones.  But then one of them had caught her with a chunk of paving-stone so heavy that it staved in her helmet.  When she'd fallen, the mob had closed in.

     "I just keep _thinking_ , Carver." 

     Timran had tried to save Hallivan, the witnesses said.  He'd burned a few of the people kicking her, put up a barrier around her and maintained it even as he grew too weak to keep himself within it.  Until they'd crushed his hands.

     "I should have sent a bigger party," Cullen whispered.  He ground at his temples with his knuckles, as if that would somehow force the rage out of his skull.  "I should have realized it was unsafe to send a lone Templar and mage into a place like that.  I should have sent people with more experience, I should have issued them extra lyrium, I should have -- "

     Carver reached up to take his hands, drawing them down with steady, inexorable pressure.  "Don't be daft.  You know you can't make logic out of this."

     No, he could not.  If he'd sent more mages or Templars, or given them more lyrium, there would just be more bodies cooling now in the city mortuary.  He _knew_ that.  And yet.

     "People are scared.  This war's made them hate both Templars and mages; can't really blame them for that, either."

     "They aren't innocent victims."  Cullen glared down at the hands that Carver now held, watching them slowly flex into fists as if they were not his own.  And they _did_ belong to someone else; he had pledged his body and soul to the Maker's service long ago.  "They are not without debt or blame for this war.  Their tithes to the Chantry helped pay for every Templar sword, every Tranquility brand we used on _their_ children.  And they have been kept safe from demons and slavery and Qunari by the spilled blood of Templar and mage alike!  It is their _gratitude_ we should have, not -- "

     " _Sod_ that."  Carver wrapped his hands around Cullen's fists, deliberately coaxing Cullen's fingers apart and curling his own fingers between them.  "You're the one told me, back when I was a green recruit, that you don't join the Templars if you want gratitude, or fame, or accomplishment.  You forgetting that?"

     He turned Cullen's hands palms-up, and Cullen stared at them in mute hatred.  Such weak stuff, flesh.  How was he to do the Maker's will with only fragile, useless bone and meat and gristle as his weapons?  He tried to make fists of them again, but Carver would not let him, tangling their fingers together.

     "Maybe that's the real curse of magic," Carver said, sighing.  "Maybe it's not just demonic possession or blood magic that makes someone an abomination.  Maybe it's the _fear_ of magic, or _greed_ for the power it gives you, or something else, that we really ought to be scared of."

     "If that is so," Cullen said, his chest tight with anger, "then we Templars have wandered _very_ far astray."

     "Maybe.  Ah, balls, I don't know, Cullen.  But I know you.  It's _you_ you're mad at, not me or anyone else."

     And that was true, Cullen conceded, closing his eyes.  He was Knight Commander.  What had happened to Hallivan and Timran was ultimately his responsibility.

     "M-my father," Carver began, and faltered silent.  And in spite of his mood, Cullen listened more closely, for Carver rarely spoke of his father -- not out of shame or spite, Cullen knew, but simply because the habit of withholding that part of his life from other Templars was too ingrained.

     Because of that, Cullen prompted as gently as he could: "Your father?"

     Carver sighed.  "Father used to say, 'Magic should serve that which is best in me.  Not that which is most base.'"

     "An interesting philosophy."  And admirable, for a mage -- but Cullen did not say this aloud.  The habits of a lifetime of prejudice were difficult to break, but he had tried to make _some_ progress.

     "Yeah."  With his thumbs, Carver massaged the tight band of muscle between Cullen's thumb and forefinger, and after a moment of this Cullen finally let his hands relax.  "I always thought that was something only mages needed to understand.  Garrett and Bethany... but the more I go through, the more I realize it works for me, too."  He shrugged.  "Seems to me _they_ believed it -- Timran and Hallivan, I mean.  They served the city, using magic to keep people safe, because they believed that was something worth dying for."

     As Cullen absorbed this, Carver lifted their entwined hands, bringing one of them up so he could kiss it over Cullen's shoulder.  "So, also, that's why I became a Templar.  Because... I might not have magic, but I can damn well make sure the people who do are using it for the best.  Right?  And now that I'm Knight Captain, I can make sure the people _protecting_ those mages are doing their best, too."

     "You do a fine job of it."

     He felt rather than saw Carver straighten just a little.  "Well.  Thanks.  Though I can do better."  He sighed, sagging.  "Anyway, if I'd been Hallivan, and I saw some mage get attacked just for trying to help people... well."  He shrugged again.  "I'd be damned proud to've died protecting him.  I mean.  If I weren't _dead_ I'd be proud."

     In spite of himself, Cullen could not help amusement.  Then it faded.  "And what of the mage?  _He_ had no choice.  We took him from his family, forced him into a prison, kept him isolated, made him a weapon of the Chantry on pain of death or mutilation -- "

     "And he had choices, still."  Carver's voice hardened.  "You know that.  He didn't call on any demons, though that might've driven the crowd back.  He didn't use his blood for power, even when they were spilling it all over the place.  He chose to die rather than become like them.  I'd be proud of that, too, in his shoes -- even if some brood-cow snatched 'em off my dying feet."

     It hurt to smile.  "I suppose I would be, too, were I him."

     Carver let go of Cullen's hands and pulled Cullen 'round to face him.  "Yeah, so.  Why are you trying so hard to blame yourself for this?"

     "I _am_ responsible -- "

     "Responsible.  Yeah.  For how their care and their training and all that, but you can't take responsibility for other people's action's, Cullen!  And you'll try to make sure it doesn't happen again, and you'll see the culprits hanged for what they did, and you'll see that woman's brat gets fostered with the orphanage and maybe becomes a Templar in turn...  All that is your job, yeah.  But that's _all_.  You can't _make_ people stop hating us, or mages.  You can't make evil just _go away_."

     Cullen drew himself up, his anger crystallizing.  It felt good, suddenly, to have a target for that anger; he was glad to have the solution to his frustration articulated so clearly.  "Perhaps not.  But I will most certainly _try_."

     To his surprise, Carver blinked, then grinned, his face alighting.  "Yeah.  Yeah!  _That's_ my commander."  He kissed Cullen, sliding one hand up to cup his head, threading fingers through his hair.  "You don't like the world, so you'll fucking _change_ it.  You're sodding mad, you are.  But it's a _good_ mad."

     Cullen blushed, his anger fading.  And as it did, he could see the sense in Carver's words.  If nothing else, it did a disservice to Hallivan's and Timran's sacrifice for Cullen to stew like this.  Guilt was a useless emotion, Carver had told him once -- and it was.  But if he could make things better in the city, so that no mage or Templar need ever fear mob violence again...

     "Perhaps it is a kind of madness," he admitted.  Then he frowned, abruptly troubled.  "Or arrogance.  It is the same thing that felled Meredith, is it not?  This utter conviction that I am right, and that the whole world must bend to my will."

     "Same as -- "  Carver stiffened against him, making a choked noise.  "Now I _know_ you're mad, if you're comparing yourself to her!  For fuck's sake, Cullen, you listen when other people tell you you're wrong; that _alone_ makes you better."

     "Meredith listened."  Indeed, Cullen had spoken with her several times in that final year, asking her to reconsider the use of the Rite of Tranquility as a punishment, urging her to take no action against Kirkwall's Champion -- or the Champion's brother.  If Carver only knew what Meredith had almost done to him...  Cullen's jaw tightened and he pulled Carver close, needing the reassurance of his warmth and solidity.  "She was not half so bad as she _could_ have been, Carver."

     "Yeah, and that's kind of making the argument for me."  Carver sighed, cupping Cullen's face in his hands and resting his forehead against Cullen's.  "Shit, I don't want to think about her.  You're ten thousand times better."

     Cullen had to smile at that; it did not hurt so much this time.  "Ten thousand?  That's rather indiscriminate, isn't it?"  He smoothed his hands along Carver's flanks, liking the warmth of his skin.  Carver slept naked when he had his druthers, though he put on smallclothes mostly so as not to scandalize Cullen whenever he strolled about the suite all a-wag.  He was rather a-wag now, Cullen could not help noting, pressed as Carver was against him; it did not take much to get Carver interested, though he did not generally press Cullen this late in the night.  They both had to rise before dawn.

     "You want discriminating?" Carver kissed him again, lightly; a tease.  "All right.  Well, you're prettier than she was.  Or maybe I just think that because the first thing I thought when I met her was _Oh, shit_ , and the first thing I thought when I met you was, _Maker, he looks tired, someone should take him to bed and give him a good licking and dicking --_ "

     Cullen tried to gasp and laugh at the same time, resulting in a helpless splutter.  "Oh, for -- "

     Carver kissed him silent, stepping closer.  All at once, when he pulled back, his smile had faded and his mood was softer, more serious.  "And you're stronger," he said.  Cullen blinked.  "You are.  Not in combat, maybe because you're not using cursed dwarven magic shit, but,"  and he shrugged.  "You faced the same thing she did and you came out of it with some fucking integrity.  You've got all the same reasons to hate and fear mages she had, but you _don't_."

     "I did," said Cullen, looking away.  Carver scowled and pulled him back to face forward.

     "You got over it," he snapped.  "She didn't.  She touched off a fucking war instead.  You're trying to stop it."

     Cullen considered that. 

     "So yeah, you're strong," Carver continued, stroking Cullen's face again; he punctuated this statement with another kiss.  "And you're dignified.  _Noble_ , way more than I am."  He kissed Cullen again, biting gently at his lower lip.  "You're fair.  And you hold your temper better than I do..."  His tongue delved a little into Cullen's mouth with the next kiss, and Cullen shivered in spite of himself, thinking perhaps it was not _so_ late, and perhaps he was not so _very_ tired.  "And the men like you better.  You -- mmm -- you _lead_.  They _want_ to follow you.  I just scare the shit out of them."

     Cullen tried to protest and could not for a moment, because Carver abruptly deepened the kiss and Cullen shuddered and stepped away from the window and smoothed his hands down Carver's back.  When Carver finally let his mouth go, Cullen had to catch his breath; he almost forgot what he'd meant to say.  Then he remembered.  "They follow you, too, Carver; they like you -- "

     "Yeah, because of _you_."  Carver drew a deep breath, obviously trying to focus his thoughts.  Yet even as he did so, he pressed harder against Cullen, backing him against the cool glass of the window.  "Because they figure I can't be that bad if you like fucking me and letting me bite you all over -- "

     Cullen inhaled, raw hunger curling through him all at once, surprising in its strength.  He cupped Carver's head in one hand and held him still for a moment so that they could kiss the way he wanted -- no more of this teasing.  Nice and deep and sweet, breath against breath, tongues sliding.  And when it was done Cullen breathed, " _Carver_ ," letting all his want fall into that one word.

     "Yeah."  Carver sounded out of breath; Cullen heard him lick his lips.  "Want tending?"  He was unfastening Cullen's trousers with one hand even as he asked, yanking the laces open and tugging Cullen's cock out for a stroke.  That first caress was like flint on steel, striking all Cullen's nerves aflame at once.

     " _Yes_ ," Cullen said, and a moment later Carver was on his knees with Cullen up to the hair in his mouth.  Cullen had to let his head fall back against the glass, because if he watched, he would spill immediately; there was just something about the sight of Carver on his knees that Cullen had always found indescribably erotic.  It was possibly the sheer _enthusiasm_ of the way Carver performed this exercise, leaving no doubt in Cullen's mind that he enjoyed doing it.  Even now the sounds -- shameless, wet, utterly vulgar slurping -- and the feel of Carver's tongue curling 'round him to tickle so delicately while his hand gripped and stroked so firmly, and his other fingers teased at Cullen's balls --

     "Nnh, ahh, no, stop.  You have to stop!"  Cullen blurted, pushing at his shoulders with shaking hands; he had never gotten so close, so quickly.  Carver made a sound of disappointment, but slurped free obligingly, sitting back on his knees.  His hand kept working the base of the shaft, which made Cullen whimper, but Carver knew him by now; that would keep him on the edge, but not push him over.

     "Sure you don't want me to finish you off?"  Carver licked the tip, once, and Cullen groaned and knocked his head back against the window hard enough to make the glass rattle.  "You need it, don't you?"

     "Nnh... I..."  He could not think.  It felt too good.  He could not speak, either, but he tried.  "Please, I...  I want..."

     There were no words for it.  He wanted everything.  He wanted to feel the weight of Carver's body, the heat of him; he wanted to smell Carver's sweat mingled with the scents of sex and oil.  He wanted Carver's voice to continue, a stroke in his ear and in his mind.  He wanted...  oh, Maker, he wanted...

     "Please."  Cullen knew what he craved, now.  His whole body _ached_ \-- but it was so hard to say the words.  "Carver, _please_."

     Carver stood, stepping close and brushing Cullen's lips with his own; the weight of him was _almost_ perfect, _almost_ what he wanted.  And Carver's hand was slow torture.  "Maker, I have dreams with you begging like that.  Coming all apart for me."  He slid his free hand up Cullen's flank and drew delicate circles around one nipple; Cullen cried out and clutched at his arms, helpless, fighting the urge to push him away or pull him closer.  "So sodding gorgeous.  Tell me what you want, Cullen, or I'll keep you like this, so I can look at you and burn it into my mind and wank off to it later."

     "Hnnh -- "  The nipple was a special cruelty; Cullen had never had any thought of being touched there before Carver, but Carver had learned over time that the most careful of teases could drive Cullen into a frenzy, when he was already hovering on the edge of arousal.  Of course he did it deliberately now.  Cullen tossed his head as if that might shake off the fever of it, to no avail.  Nothing to be done for it, but confess.

     "I want you... t-to hold me."  Cullen had to close his eyes to say it.  His face was afire.  "And to... to be... slow..."  He shuddered; just the thought of it was a torment.  "And tell me.  That I am..."  But this he could not say.  It was too selfish a thing to ask, too narcissistic; he was not a child, to need such reassurance.  And yet.

     Carver pulled away a little, and his hand stilled.  Cullen held his breath, then forced himself to open his eyes.  The look of wonder and consternation on Carver's face eased some of his fears.

     "Tell you what?"  Carver was frowning; his voice had gone soft.  "That you're so fucking perfect for me I wake up every morning scared and hoping everything I've had with you isn't just a dream?"

     Cullen started, staring back at him.  Carver's scowl deepened; he shook his head and slid his hand around Cullen from his chest to his back, pulling him tight.  Cullen found himself half-muffled against Carver's shoulder, feeling Carver's breath hot against his ear.  "You sodding fool,"  Carver murmured, and despite the words Cullen could feel the tension in his embrace.  His big hand splayed across Cullen's back, cushioning him from the cold glass, hot as a brand by contrast.  "Do you really need to hear things like that?  How can you be so fucking strong, so much stronger than me, and need _me_ to make you feel better?"

     But even as he scolded Cullen, his hand kept working steady, gentle magic on Cullen's cock, slow enough to be a torment.  Cullen opened his mouth to try and reply, but no words came -- just a broken groan that made Carver inhale and pull him tighter, closer.

     "Fine, then."  Carver's lips grazed Cullen's neck, or perhaps that was a droplet of his own sweat.  No, Carver's breath was hot on his shoulder as he said:  "I'll _talk_ to you, and I'll jerk you off slow, and I'll hold you like your life depends on it, if that's all you want."  He laughed a little, breath a puffing tickle on Cullen's skin; his hand squeezed in the same moment, perhaps involuntarily, and Cullen twitched all over.  "All the things you could have from me, Cullen.  I would do anything for you, you know that?  Put me on a leash.  Make me take it every night, cock, fists, no oil, I wouldn't care.  You could hurt me so many ways.  Share me out to half the Order, and as long as you still looked at me the same way after, _I wouldn't care_.  I'd do it happily."

     And Cullen twitched again, clutching at Carver's back in helpless reflex, a defense against shame.  Because sometimes the temptation _was_ there, to... to _use_ Carver, like that.  Such temper and power and vigor, _all his for the taking_.  So willing to obey.  And there had been times -- Cullen bit his lip and arched against him as Carver's hand paused, his thumb circling the head of him once, twice, thrice -- times when he had looked down at Carver, that magnificent body sprawled and willing, and thought _You are an offering laid at my feet_.

     Pride was a sin before the Maker, and Carver made him want to sin _so very much_.

     "And all you want is for me to hold you."  Carver did laugh at this, but it was warm, half-buried in Cullen's shoulder, and Cullen shuddered with it -- or perhaps that was the resumption of Carver's steady stroking.  "Shit, that's easy.  And you want me to tell you how good a man you are?  Even as you stand here, tearing yourself up because the world isn't nearly as good as you want it to be?"  All at once he shuddered, making the window rattle; Cullen felt him bury his face in Cullen's neck.  "That's why I love you."

     Cullen closed his eyes, and listened to the catch of his own breath.  After a moment, Carver took a deep breath and kissed Cullen's ear again.

     "So, yeah, you're a good man.  Not perfect."  There was an instant of horrible stillness as Carver lifted his hand and spat into it, then resumed working Cullen's cock with relentless skill.  "I don't want perfect anyway.  I'll settle for _brave as fuck_.  You've got balls like a kossith."  He let go Cullen's cock for a moment and cupped the organs in question for a moment, his fingertips expertly grazing just behind them, and Cullen moaned into Carver's hair.  Carver chuckled against his skin.  "And you're hot, did you know that?  I get hard just listening to you speak, sometimes.  And the taste of you -- "

     Abruptly he pulled back and kissed Cullen, hard, his breath a harsh pant against Cullen's nose as his tongue thrust deep, a caress against his own.  In the same moment he took hold of Cullen's cock again and pumped it fast -- too fast, too much, and Cullen groaned a protest into Carver's mouth before Carver finally sighed and let his mouth go and slowed his hand down.  He pressed his face into Cullen's neck again, panting, making a sound of frustration, but palpably bringing himself back under control.

     "Wh-when you're in my mouth I just... _fuck_ , Cullen, you're like silk on my tongue, like really good wine, I want to swallow you _down_."  Hard, hot breath.  Cullen was shaking, his whole body rocked by the stroke of Carver's hand, all his attention riveted to those words.  "You're so Maker-damned fair that you almost never just come in my mouth and _I want you to_.  I don't have to come to get off on you, for fuck's sake.  Understand?"

     "Hnnh," Cullen attempted, and then he could only hope Carver could interpret that.  Carver laughed.

     "Then again, I love you like this, too.  Putty in my hands."  His teeth closed on Cullen's shoulder for a moment, biting just to the edge of pain; Cullen twitched.  "Right now I want to fuck you blind.  Then I want to pull out of you and have you in _me_ , deep.  I want to come _all over you_."

     He was making a sound, half whimper and half sob, with every twitch of Carver's fingers, steady and rhythmic.  And as much as he wanted it to last, he knew it would not; already he felt the warning pull in his vitals, warming his whole body, and he could not help rising to his toes and thrusting against Carver's hand.  "Nnah... please..."

     He felt Carver's smile against his skin, and then Carver's hand tightened on him in warning.

     "So I'm done with this slow shit," he breathed into Cullen's ear, "because as much as I like hearing you beg, I like hearing you scream, _more_."

     The muscles of his arm flexed, hard, beautiful; Cullen clutched at that arm, needing to feel the coiled strength of it.  Beneath his fingers Carver's hand began working again, hard and fast, and Cullen banged his head against the glass in a paroxysm of overstimulation.  "Please!"

     "Yeah?"  Carver laughed, breathlessly; he was enjoying this.  "Please what, huh?"

     He was going to die, it felt so good, his heart was in his mouth, his cock was going to catch fire.  "Uhn, Andraste, Carver, please, ahh!"  Carver's teeth were on his chin.  It made no sense at all that something like that made him want to shout for joy, but it did.  He clawed at Carver's shoulders and writhed against the window until the glass groaned ominously and he did not care if he died this way because Carver was with him, and that meant more than an eternity at the Maker's side. 

     " _Please don't stop_ ," he breathed.

     Carver didn't.  And Cullen screamed.

#

     He lost track of things for awhile.

     As he returned to awareness, he found himself lying on his side on the room's rug, with Carver curled against him, their legs tangled together.  Carver was breathing hard, one hand still curled around his own softening cock, the other -- the same one he'd used on Cullen -- limp beside it, the fingers loose and sticky.

     "It's easy," Carver said, stopping to swallow, to catch his breath, "easy to, to tell you all the... nnh, the good things.  To make you feel good.  What's hard is... being scared for you."

     Cullen reached out to touch his face.  It felt as though the gesture took forever.  Like he was trying to reach across miles.  When his fingers threaded into Carver's sweaty hair, it felt like landing after being in the air.  Like coming home.

     Carver smiled at the touch, his eyes drifting shut.  But his voice was serious as he said, "All those good things you are.  So many people hate you for that.  I have to... have to keep you safe.  Have to... be strong."  He was drifting already, though usually it was Cullen who fell into a stupor after their lovemaking; Carver usually just wanted to go at it again.  But it had been a long day for both of them.

     "Have to be worthy," Carver murmured.  "Stand at your side."  And then he said no more.  His breathing smoothed out, deep and even.

     Cullen stroked the side of his face with a thumb.  "But you are the one for whom _I_ must be worthy," he said, wondering.  Carver made no reply.

#

     In the morning they were both stiff; the rug had not been plush enough to cushion the marble floor much, and once the sweat had cooled they'd had to curl together for warmth.  Blearily Cullen cracked the suite door and asked a passing Tranquil to have someone heat them water for a bath, which was done with an alacrity that suggested magical intervention.  The Tranquil returned with three others, all of them lugging two great tubs of near-boiling water.  They repeated this exercise twice while Cullen performed his usual morning toilette, and then after thanking and dismissing them Cullen ran enough cold from the pump to make the water just tolerable.  Carver stumbled in at this point, grunted something unintelligible at the sight of the water, and then joined Cullen in it after washing.  Both of them sat neck-deep in the heat for awhile, facing one another and entangling their legs for comfort, letting it soothe away the aches of the unforgiving floor.

     "You're quiet," said Carver, yawning.  He was never at his best in the mornings, though he would wake enough to fake it by morning muster.  "And you prayed longer than usual this morning."

     "Yes," said Cullen.  Then he drew a breath, and said what had been on his mind all the while.  "I would like you to consider marriage."

     Carver looked at him blankly.  "What?  To who?"

     Cullen stared at him.  "To _me_."

     "Don't be daft, Cullen."  Carver yawned and stretched under the water, letting his toes peek above the surface for a moment before relaxing again.  "We're Templars.  And also, we both have dicks."

     Cullen would have blushed, if not for the flush that the hot water had already given him.  "I am _aware_ of that.  But Templars do marry -- especially officers, though it is discouraged among the lower ranks for obvious reasons.  I am also aware that the Chantry has no doctrine specifically forbidding men from marrying each other."

     Carver was mid-yawn as Cullen said this; Cullen saw him pause.  And frown.  He closed his mouth, blinking.  "You're serious."

     "Well, I would not have suggested it, otherwise."

     Carver sat up straighter, his face incredulous.  " _That's_ how you ask me to sodding marry you?  We're sitting in a _bathtub_."

     Cullen shifted, uneasily.  "I did not think you wished me to go down on one knee.  I can, if you would prefer -- "  And then he yelped, as Carver scowled and kicked him in the side, ungently.  As Cullen grimaced and fingered the site, which he suspected would bruise, Carver lunged up onto his knees, looming over Cullen.

     " _I thought_ ," he snarled, "you were trying to sell me off to some noble family for political bullshit.  And I was going to tell you to sod right off, if so.  That's _not_ the way you ask somebody to marry you, for fuck's sake!"

     And then he was gone, out of the tub and storming out of the bathroom, snatching a towel as he dripped through the door.

     "Bloody Maker," Cullen muttered, wiping his face in Carver's wake.  That had not gone at all as he'd imagined.  And, if he was honest with himself about the tight knot of pain that now curled in his breast, it had broken his hopes a little, as well.

     But when he got out of the bathroom, clad only in a towel -- he had taken the time to dry off, at least, using that as an excuse to compose his wits -- he found Carver fully dressed and waiting for him in the middle of the room.  He hadn't armored himself, but he was still scowling with his arms folded, so Cullen braced himself for unpleasantness.

     "You're a fucking arse," said Carver.

     "Apparently," Cullen replied.

     Carver stalked around the table to him.  "Tell me you're not -- "  He unfolded his arms and gestured sharply, vaguely.  "Tell me this isn't about Hallivan and Timran.  That you don't -- that you're not thinking -- "  As Cullen stared at him in utter confusion, Carver hissed in an angry breath -- a pained breath, Cullen realized belatedly -- and looked away, his fists clenched.  "A lot of people want you dead, too!"

     _Ohh_.  All at once Cullen felt like a fool.

     "No," he said quickly.  "This has nothing to do with... prior events.  Except -- "  He blushed.  "Last night."

     Carver threw him a withering look.  "What, did you need a handjob that bad?"

     "Oh, for --  That is _not_ what I meant."  Cullen stepped closer, reaching awkwardly for Carver's hand, which was still a fist.  But as Carver had done to him the night before, Cullen insistently worked his fingers between Carver's tight-locked ones, until Carver finally muttered something foul and relaxed his hand. 

     Taking a deep breath, Cullen said, "I have wanted this of you for some time, but it never seemed... appropriate.  There seemed more important matters, and this one seemed... self-indulgent.  Last night, however, you reminded me of _why_ I have done what I can for the Gallows, and why I work to keep Kirkwall safe, and why I and so many others are willing to risk our lives to try and end this benighted war.  You are..."  Oh, Andraste, this was becoming far too sentimental.  He set his jaw.  " _You_ are why.  So.  It is, ah, appropriate."

     Carver stared at him -- but Cullen thought he saw a hint of a smile on the other man's face.  "You're such a wanker," he said.

     Cullen grimaced.  "Apparently."

     "But you're _my_ wanker."  Carver stepped closer.  "No martyrdom, then?"

     "It is certainly not something I am _planning_ , no."  Indeed; thinking of the tragic deaths of a mage and Templar in Cullen's charge had made him more determined than ever to see peace return.  He faced Carver, meeting his searching gaze, and hoped Carver could see that in him, somehow.  If his words had done nothing to reassure, perhaps he could do so in other ways.

     And Carver nodded, slowly, which eased Cullen's heart somewhat.

     "Right, then," Carver said.  "We do this properly."

     "Do wha -- "  But Cullen had no chance to finish that thought, as Carver abruptly went down on one knee before him.  "Oh Andraste preserve us.  Carver -- "

     "Shut it."  Carver grinned up at him.  "You want to get married, yeah?  Me too.  Okay, that's settled."  And with a wicked look on his face, he pulled off Cullen's towel and took his cock in one hand.

     "Carver -- "  Cullen tried again, his face flaming.  "We are due for muster in half an hour!  And how is this _proper_?"

     "It's proper for _us_."  Carver's hand worked expertly, efficiently, and in half a breath the protest died on Cullen's lips.  At his sudden silence, Carver licked him in a long, steady stroke.  It felt so exquisite that Cullen could only press a hand to his mouth to stop himself moaning.  "Yeah, that's better.  I don't want you being all stiff and formal on the day I get engaged.  Now."  He glanced at the sun, calculating.  "You shut up and let me take care of you, and we'll be done in plenty of time to arm up and make the yard.  All right?"

     And he set to it, with a will.  Cullen bit his lip, thought of protesting, and finally decided to yield the argument.

     After all, he thought, at least before his thoughts dissolved into a haze of pleasure -- a successful marriage was all about compromise.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't fond of this one because it seemed to be using a tragic moment just to get the guys into bed with each other. When I want to explore something tragic, I'd prefer to do that *for itself*, to do that issue justice. This story failed in that. 
> 
> ...On the other hand, epic handjob, and erotic ("dirty" feels insufficient) talking. I'm rather proud of those bits.


End file.
